


Drips and Drabbles from District 12

by appleblossomgirl



Series: Drips and Drabbles from District 12 [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 03:22:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8694430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appleblossomgirl/pseuds/appleblossomgirl
Summary: A collection of drabbles posted on Tumblr, mostly written for d12drabbles. Many thanks to the moderators of District 12 Drabbles for the prompts and to @Xerxia for her amazing beta skills and friendship.
Moving Day was written for Week 1 prompt: "An Unexpected Letter"
Rated T





	1. Moving Day

The letter had slipped down behind my mother’s bed frame. If I hadn’t wedged myself behind the bed to push it away from the wall, I never would have seen it. As I slid between the wall and the metal frame to grab the paper, my fingers registered that the paper was soft and pliant, fraying along the deep creases. It had obviously been carefully folded and unfolded many times. I turned it over in my palm and the single word, “Lily”, scrawled on the paper made my breath catch. My father had written this letter to my mother.

I discreetly pocketed the paper, feeling like the worst kind of thief. I knew it wasn’t mine, wasn’t meant for me to read, but I needed to. Since Peeta and I had returned from the games, I had felt the absence of something fundamental. Some essential part of me had been lost to the arena. And the sight of my father’s handwriting held a promise of something: it felt like a whisper from beyond the grave. I had cheated fate, and maybe he could tell me why.

“You okay there, Catnip?” Gale was staring at me in that way he had now. Warily. “I can get Rory in to help move this thing.”

“I’m fine,” I snapped. “Sorry. I’ve got my side. Count of three?” He nodded, but was still looking at me sideways, like I could detonate at any minute.

I took a deep breath and focused on not losing my composure. I hated the way things were between Gale and I, like all of the ease had evaporated between us; all of the camaraderie, the comfortable silences had faded without the mutual need of dire circumstance. But even though things were awkward as fuck, the Hawthornes still turned up to help us move from our home in the Seam to our new address in the Victor’s Village.

After several loads had been packed and transported by wagon to our new house and the rest distributed to neighbors, we profusely thanked the Hawthornes, issued the weekly dinner invitation that was politely declined, and headed to our new house. I made a lame excuse not to ride back with my mother and Prim on the wagon and began the trek back on foot.

As I snaked my way through the town alleys, I absently thumbed the soft paper sequestered in my pocket, admonishing myself for worrying the fragile letter. I kept my head down and my dad’s old hunting jacket wrapped tightly around me. I scarcely looked up, not wanting to register anyone’s reaction to the newest Victor. Well, one of them. The ruthless one, the defiant one, the not-nice one.

I tracked my progress through the soles of my boots, transitioning from the the mud tracks of the seam to the paved cobblestones of the town center. I resented the extra distance I had to drag my sorry ass, feeling every extra step in my listless body, leaden with exhaustion from my nightmare-filled nights.

In some ways, I wished my mind didn’t know there was alternative, located just a few houses away. It could be miles, oceans, continents away for as accessible as it, as he, was to me. Knowing that his arms, his soft words, his steady heartbeat could battle my terror, could award me something as precious as sleep, was its own kind of torture. Because I’d lost him. Or, whatever, I’d pushed him away. Because, unfortunately, his comfort also came with his gratitude, his relentless adoration, his fathomless hurt. And the fact that I was responsible for even one more ounce of pain that he had to endure made me hate myself a little more.

So I kept my head down and wandered strange, circuitous routes through town to avoid the possibility of seeing him. Or hearing his voice. Now I held a relic of my father’s voice, tucked deep inside my coat pocket. I couldn’t bring myself to stop touching it.

I was so intently staring at the scuffed toe of my old hunting boots as I tried to talk myself out of reading the letter that I almost walked right into him. And he wasn’t alone. Leena Ashwood, the Tanner’s daughter had her lily-white hand linked over his elbow. She was leaning into his side, twirling her golden hair around a delicate finger as she babbled on. Peeta chuckled at something she’d said and my entire world shifted on its axis, tilting dangerously and threatening to turn out my empty stomach. His step faltered as he saw me, but he just nodded once at me as he passed, not saying anything. And why would he? We had barely spoken since we returned from the games.

I paused, unsure what to do. The thought of going back towards town was unbearable. The thought of trailing behind Peeta and Leena was equally unpleasant. But my feet choose home and I was about 15 paces behind them as we walked up the slight hill to the Victor’s Village. I tried to focus on the stones, but I couldn’t help glancing up at them. I tried to focus on how steady Peeta looked; I could barely detect a limp anymore. But as my gaze scanned up his frame, noticing how well he had filled out as he’d recovered all of the weight and muscle he lost in the games, it caught on the blond barnacle attached to his side. I felt the jealousy climb up from my stomach to my chest, wrapping vice-like around my heart. I scurried away towards my house as soon as we were through the entry gate, but my heart didn’t stop clenching, even when I made it through the door. I pressed myself against the window sill, hidden by the curtains as I watched him walk into his house with her.

Why was she there? Why did he let her in? She didn’t belong there!

After several minutes of staring at his closed front door, I smacked the wall with the palms of my hands and moved into the kitchen. My mom and Prim were happily unpacking boxes of dishes while chatting. Their conversation slowed to a trickle as I moved into help. But I felt even more uncomfortable than usual around my mother, considering what I held in my pocket.

I excused myself and lugged a box upstairs to my room. I tried in vain to look into the downstairs parlor of Peeta’s house, but it was a fool’s errand. The only way I could see him from my bedroom window was if he was standing at his. As he did most nights, backlit by the soft glow of light that always stayed on in his house. Sleep didn’t come easily to him, either.

I slid down the wall to sit crouched beneath the window. I pulled the letter from my pocket and looked at the masculine scrawl of my mother’s name in my father’s hand. I desperately wanted to read my father’s letter, but couldn’t do it with my mom in the house. It was too much of a violation. Besides, once I’d read it, I would need to find a way to slip it into one of her boxes so she’d discover it herself.

I pulled myself up on windowsill to peek at his door, hoping I’d see her leave. The door was still stubbornly closed. I couldn’t stop thinking about what they were doing in there, tonguing it obsessively like a toothache in my mind. I was going crazy.

Jumping up, I headed for the door. I wasn’t clear what my plan was, but sitting inside was no longer an option. As I reached the bottom of my steps, I was faced with a host of bad choices. Visiting Haymitch it was.

I knocked several times before opening the door cautiously. The stale smell of sour sweat, spoiled food and white liquor fumes nearly knocked me back. Against my better judgement, I put my sleeve over my nose and mouth and pushed in, calling out for Haymitch as I walked into his sitting room. He was passed out face-down on the couch. I nudged him with my foot, but he didn’t stir. After verifying that I could see his back rising and falling, proving that he was in fact still breathing, I made my way into his kitchen. The putrid suite of odors shifted and I spotted a fuzzy, gray lump of something is his sink.

“Gracious, Haymitch,” I muttered to myself. He completely disgusted me. But considering how close I was to crawling out of my own skin as thoughts of Peeta and Leena entangled together festered in my mind, I couldn’t maintain my usual level of judgement at Haymitch’s self-medicating tendencies. Numb didn’t sound so bad right now.

I had to put all of my weight into cracking the seal of the window which must have been glued shut with years of residue. I took great, gulping breaths of fresh air. From Haymitch’s kitchen, I could see into Peeta’s sitting room. I chastised myself as I craned to see evidence of their joined blond heads, but I couldn’t see any sign of them. Somehow this made me even more panicky.

After shouldering my way through Haymitch’s back door, hoping for a cross breeze to dilute the toxicity, I quickly evaluated my options. From Haymitch’s backyard, I could walk between the houses and peek into one of his windows on the sitting room side. Even riskier, I could spy from his back porch which would afford me a view of more of his house. The mere thought of getting caught doing either of these things was utterly mortifying. I could just go over there. I could make an excuse and knock on his door. Or I could do what I should have done every day for the past few months and check on him. Invite him to dinner. My heart sank as I realized how unkind I’d been. I knew what it felt like to be left on my own, neglected by the ones you need the most.

And even though he technically had his family, I had scarcely seen a Mellark set foot in the Victor’s Village. My mind had shied away from these truths; they hurt too much to examine fully. I turned towards home, deciding to abandon this ridiculous task until I could think straight and not make things any worse than they already were.

I jumped a good six inches into the air at the sound of my name.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Oh, how I had missed his voice. “What are you doing?”

My mind went blank with panic. I couldn’t go with the checking on him option, as I had already started back home. “I- I needed your help with something.” My mind landed on the other thing it had been obsessing over all day. “I found a letter…”

He looked concerned. “What kind of letter? From who?”

“From my dad.” It felt weirdly good to share this with him.

“Wow.” He squinted into the setting sun as he looked at me. “How can I help?” No hesitation, no denial, just clear, blue eyes, crinkling adorably at the edges. It stung to look at him. I’d missed him so much. My mind swung away from this too and abruptly remembered Leena.

“Where’s your friend?” I asked, sounding every bit as jealous as I felt.

“Leena? She left a while ago.” He looked perplexed as he stared at me.

Damn it. How had I missed her leaving? I felt myself relax for the first time in hours.

“I was coming out to pick some herbs from the garden and I noticed Haymitch’s door was ajar.” He gestured with one hand and flashed me a wry half-smile. “I thought I was the only one that aired him out periodically.”

I snorted. Here was another thing I had neglected. Caring for Haymitch beyond leaving squirrels on his porch hadn’t really occurred to me. Of course Peeta had been taking care of him.

“Want to come into the garden with me?” I nodded and he turned to walk into his backyard. He had set up garden beds that were laden with greens and herbs. He began to pinch off the tips of feathery leaves and a smell I recognized as dill floated through the air.

He sat down on the edge of the porch, extending his prosthetic leg out in front of him, and looked up at me expectantly.

I felt tendrils of terror thread through my belly, but took a deep, unsteady breath and sat down next to him. I reached into the pocket of my jacket and felt the edges of the paper. Somehow, sharing this with Peeta felt right. I handed it over to him and watched as his huge hands took it gently from my shaking fingers. He unfolded it reverently and I wrapped my arms around my shins, burying my face between my knees.

He cleared his throat and began to read.

“My Dearest Lily,

I can’t wait until tomorrow. I know you were kidding when you asked me about having cold feet, but as I walked home tonight it occurred to me that maybe it was your feet that were feeling a bit chilly. I thought I better say this now while it is clear in my mind. I don’t have a single doubt that marrying you is the best decision I’ve ever made. I know we went about this a little out of order, but I would have wanted to marry you no matter what. I don’t care who thinks we’re crazy, we don’t need anyone except each other. Besides the fact that you are the most beautiful woman in Panem, you are kind and good and true. You are going to make the best mother. I love you. We are going to be so happy together, our little family.

Tomorrow night when I kiss you goodnight, it will be in our home, in our bed. This is the last night we’ll sleep apart for the rest of our lives.

J”

He cleared his throat again and slowly folded the letter.

I stared down into my lap, feeling the burn of tears. It was a terrible idea to have Peeta read that letter. It was far too intimate. But it was also perfect. When I glanced up at him, he was smiling and slowly shaking his head.

“What?” I demanded.

He looked at me with the most beautiful smile, golden evening light filtering through his long lashes. “That is a damn good letter.”

I smiled ruefully. It was a good letter. I could see why mother had read and re-read it. I was jealous that she had something that proved so concretely that he had loved her. I had my memories, and his jacket and his bow, but those were things. This was a piece of his heart.

With a rush of urgency, I needed to get it back to my mother. To make sure she recovered this evidence of his love, that she could hold in her hands again.

I slid off the porch and held out my hand for the letter. He gently placed it in my outstretched palm.

“Thank you,” I whispered, not trusting my voice to be steady.

He pulled himself up to standing. “Thank you for sharing that with me.” He traced his dill-scented fingertips down the side of my face, then tilted my face up to him before placing a soft kiss on my cheek. Despite the chasteness of the kiss, I felt a warmth spread through my entire body. I wanted to stay.

“Will you come to dinner?” I sounded so small, even to my own ears. But my heart was in my throat, making it difficult to talk.

His answering smile rivaled the last rays of the setting sun. “How about tomorrow?” he asked. “Tonight, I have a letter to write.”

I nodded, hoping the shadows would swallow my blush. “I’d like that.” I walked towards the corner, glancing over my shoulder as he cleared his throat.

“Good night, Katniss. Sleep well.” 

As I walked the few dozen steps that separated our houses, I couldn’t help but wonder if there would be a night in my future that would promise to be the last without Peeta beside me. The answering shiver of anticipation that coursed through me made me fervently hope so.


	2. The Lady of the Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the d12drabbles prompt: "Supernatural". 
> 
> Rated M
> 
> The pagan chant entitled “Back to the River” is quoted from The Pagan and Wiccan Information Center at www.sanfords.net.

At first Katniss thought it was the wind; the melodic way it whistled through the leaves and branches. But as the snare line brought her farther into the forest, she realized it was voices threading through the air, weaving into song. Stopping abruptly, she crouched low as the cold prickle of fear lanced up her spine. There were no people in the forest, none other than she and Gale. And certainly not people that sang.

She glanced around frantically trying to see them, for there were too many voices for their bearers to remain invisible. Slow, deep breaths, learned over years of keeping her head in the face of danger, calmed her hammering heart. When she looked up, she nearly toppled over backwards in shock as the woman standing directly in front of her seemed to have materialized out of nothing. The brown and dark green robes she wore blended with the surrounding earth and plants.

She stared at Katniss for a moment before nodding. “Oh, I see,” she said, glancing behind Katniss. “Where is he?”

“Gale?” she croaked, realizing too late that she shouldn’t have exposed this advantage. This woman, who emanated something threatening, shouldn’t be trusted.

“No, girl, where is your father?”

“Dead.”

The woman’s black eyes seemed to flare red in the late afternoon light. Katniss gripped her bow tighter. “How?” It was more of a demand than a question.

“Mine explosion. Several years ago.” She needed to stop answering this woman’s questions, she needed to figure out what was going on. But it felt as though the answers were being drawn out of her.

The woman let out a low keening noise that sounded like grief itself and the singing stopped. More women materialized out of nothingness and moved in to form a circle around Katniss and the dark woman.

“Please tell your man to come out in the open. It would be a shame for anyone to get hurt.” Despite the conversational tone, Katniss sensed the brittleness of her composure.

Without breaking eye contact, Katniss called out to Gale. He stepped out from behind a nearby tree, bow raised.

“Hmmm.” The dark woman hummed. “Lower your bow.” Again, the quiet command. Katniss braced herself for Gale’s retaliation; he didn’t respond well to orders. But to her surprise, he dropped the bow to the ground and walked forward. The women parted and he entered the circle standing next to Katniss.

“You okay, Catnip?” Gale sounded weirdly subdued.

“Fine.” Katniss had a persistent urge to run, to get as far away from this dark woman as possible, but knew she had to master her fear. Something feral and savage within her demanded she stand her ground. She took a slow breath in through her nose, and then another. As her body responded, slowing and settling back into the soles of her feet, she took a moment to study this woman. She was of an indiscernible age, but appeared to be slightly older than Katniss’ mother. Her hair was jet black, as were her eyes, but her skin was light, giving off an almost pearlescent glow. She was regal, if not conventionally beautiful, emanating strength and cunningness.

Cocking her head, she appraised Katniss with equal interest. She raised a hand towards Katniss’ face and Katniss felt Gale tense beside her.

“Easy, boy. I promise not to harm your love.”

“He’s not…” Katniss stopped herself before finishing the thought and chastised herself for volunteering information to this woman.

The dark women smiled coolly as she slid icy, pale fingers down Katniss’ cheek. “I see. You’re strong, capable, imperious to a fault. You’ve encased yourself in armour like a shiny, black beetle. But it has left you blind and stupid.” 

Katniss bristled at the description, but clenched her teeth to keep from responding. She swallowed and asked in as even a tone as she could manage, “Who are you? What do you want?”

That bloodless smile still on her thin lips, she responded, “I am known by many names, the Dark Woman, the Lady of the Forest, Witch. But, once, my name was Forsythia, you may call me that.” She looked into the distance, eyes becoming unfocused for a moment before she narrowed them at Katniss. “As to what I want, I haven’t entirely decided. I came for your father, but it seems I will have to seek him elsewhere. Instead, I have found you.” She tapped her bony finger against her pale lip. “I think we will both benefit from you seeing a bit more clearly.”

Katniss’ scalp prickled uncomfortably, making her aware of each piece of hair, each follicle. Her eyes felt vulnerable and she fought not to close them.

Forsythia snorted, “No, not with those.” Her face smoothed out and grew serious. “I share with you the gift of real sight.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” Katniss blurted out, unable to keep the slight trill of panic from fraying the edges of her voice.

“Oh, but my dear little beetle, it is a gift.” There was no way to miss the malice, bubbling just below the surface of her words.

And then the women were moving away from her, falling into some sort of loose formation as they silently moved towards the edge of the forest, towards the fence. And as they resumed their ethereal song, now Katniss could decipher the words.

“Back To The River, Back To The Sea

Back To The Ocean, One With Thee

Back To My Blood, And Back Through My Veins

Back To My Heartbeat, One And The Same

Back To The Forest, Back To The Fields

Back To The Mountains, Her Body Revealed

Back To My Bones, Back To My Skin

Back To My Spirit, The Fire Within”

Gale reached out and grasped Katniss’ shoulder. As soon as his fingers made contact with the skin at the neckline of her shirt, she was assaulted by a host of images, overlapping and in quick succession: she saw herself stalking prey, bow clutched tightly in her hand, and felt a begrudging respect tinged with something hungry. Next she saw herself floating on her back in the lake and felt a tightening in her lower belly, an unfamiliar stiffening in her groin as she raked her eyes over the wet fabric clinging to her meager breasts. She watched her slight hips sway as she saw herself from behind threading through the hob, a frustration at having to hold herself back, but knowing anything more would be dangerous. She watched Darius pull on her tightly plaited braid and lean in to plant a chaste kiss on her cheek while jealousy and possessiveness rose up like bile in her throat. Mine, her mind shouted. She looked down on Elsa Fairbrook’s wet, pink lips sliding up and down her hot, hard length and bit her lip hard to keep from calling her own name out as she came.

Katniss pulled away from Gale’s grasp, trying and failing to ignore the wounded look he shot her as she stumbled backwards away from him.

“I need to get home. Now,” she called over her shoulder as she began to run towards the fence. Despite there being many of them, moving at a walking pace, she couldn’t see a single one of the women in front her. Witches, she corrected herself.

As she stepped through the door of her family’s home, she heard their voices twining through the muddy tracks of the Seam and felt her blood chill. Why were they here? What did they want.

Her mother looked pale and drawn as she stood at the window, barely peeking through a slit in the faded curtains.

After verifying that Prim was home and safe, Katniss stood next to her mother. “There is a group of women. They were in the forest beyond the fence.”

“Yes,” her mother breathed, barely audible.

“One of them asked about Dad.” It was difficult to say, they didn’t talk about her father.

“Forsythia.”

“She said she was a…witch.” Katniss felt foolish repeating this. She didn’t believe in things like witches. Hunger, desperation, abandonment, those were her nightmares.

“Yes. I suppose she is.” Her mother chucked softly, uncharacteristically. “I always wondered if she’d come back.”

“What does she want?”

“Who knows. She is a strangely selfish person.” Katniss couldn’t stop the derisive snort in time and her mother looked down, paling. “I suppose we all are when we love something.”

“What are you talking about?” Katniss wanted to shake her mother, force her to stay with her, but she had lost her again.

“There’s no time to explain. We should get to the town square. She’ll be expecting us there.” Her mother moved away from window into the shadowed kitchen. She pulled her shawl from the chair and moved towards the door, brushing against Katniss’ arm as she passed.

Katniss’ stomach dropped out as a bottomless grief engulfed her. She gripped the doorway as the image of her father’s face, contorted in pain as he screamed her mother’s name before being consumed by flames, ricocheted through her mind. But then her mother was past and she nearly collapsed in relief.

Katniss walked several steps behind her mother as she moved trance-like towards town. She had shouldered her own grief alone for so long, she hadn’t ever considered that the quality of her mother’s heartache could differ so much from her own. Katniss’ grief was lonely, but also hot and angry. If Katniss had ever thought to compare her and her mother’s misery, she likely would have balanced the ledgers to show that while her mother had lost her husband, Katniss had lost both her father and her mother. For the first time, Katniss understood that her mother had also lost herself.

She was startled as Prim came up beside her and grasped her hand. Katniss was turning to smile at her when the crippling waves of anxiety came crashing over her. She was cradled lovingly in her mother’s arms as her father blew wet noisy raspberries on her stomach. Then she felt the utter confusion of a forever absent father. And her bone-thin arms wrapped around her mother’s frail frame as she cried and begged for her to come back. She clung to her older sister as the only island of stability in a vast sea of uncertainty. Katniss was nearly crushed under the weight of the worshipful need.

Katniss pulled her hand from Prim’s as gently as she could and wrapped her arm around her shoulders, being very careful to touch only fabric.

“It won’t be you at the Reaping tomorrow, I promise.” The assurance cost her nothing if it eased even a fraction of Prim’s terror.

Prim nodded and leaned into her. Katniss hugged her close, but longed to be alone, to escape this. This “new sight”, as Forsythia had called it, was a curse. Katniss had enough trouble outrunning her own feelings and weaknesses. She certainly didn’t want to be this aware of anyone else’s.

As they made their way into town, they met with other families, trickling into the stream of people heading for the square. Katniss became aware of the soft chanting and felt the bite of fear on the back of her neck.

The town square had been converted into something resembling the harvest festival. Many merchants had set up tables and a small group of musicians were quietly tuning up their instruments off to the side. Forsythia and her women were gathered at the center around the fountain.

Katniss instinctively stepped away from the women and backed into something solid.

“Hi, Katniss.” Peeta’s voice was familiar but unexpected. He had caught her by the hip as she knocked into him and his finger and thumb gripped the bare skin just above her belt.

The unadulterated love that flooded through her stole her breath. Katniss saw herself standing on a chair in a red plaid dress, head thrown back as she sang the Valley Song. She saw the jutting collar bones through her drenched shirt as she threw her dying self the burned loaves of bread. Her eyes caressed the back of her neck, her tongue longed to trace each jutting bone, her fingers itched to slide down her braid. She watched herself come to the alley door of the bakery and she longed to call out. She watched strong hands sketch the shape of her breasts, felt the responding tug in her navel as she hardened again. The yearning that coursed through her made her throb and ache and want.

“Are you okay?” Peeta asked as he reluctantly pulled his hand away from her skin. She could still feel the heat of him and couldn’t tell if it was the echo of his borrowed desire or her own that flushed her skin.

She nodded, not trusting her voice. His lovely blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled back at her.

Despite the damp heat of the summer evening, Katniss felt the cold against her feverish skin before Forsythia spoke to her.

“Who’s this? I thought the dark one was your boy.” Her voice was low and raspy.

Katniss instinctively stepped away from Peeta, putting distance between him and Forsythia. “I told you he wasn’t.”

“That’s right, you did.” She looked amused, but still managed to be menacing. “I think I’ll take you with me, little beetle.”

“I think I won’t go,” replied Katniss, grateful that her voice, steadied by her anger, didn’t betray her fear.

When Forsythia grasped Katniss’ face with both of her icy hands, Katniss went rigid from the electric jolt that wracked her body. The power coursed through her, transforming her into something molten, more radiant than the sun. She was unconquerable. Forsythia gasped and wrenched her hands from Katniss. They stared at each other.

“Join me,” Forsythia commanded.

“No.” Katniss was filled with the certainty that Forsythia could not force her. She could destroy Katniss, but she could not bend her to her will.

“Then I will make you regret it.” Forsythia curled her hand into a fist and Katniss felt the seams of something rip inside her. Then a wave of relief.

Trailed by her silent ladies, Forsythia turned and walked into the darkness.

Everyone disbanded and wandered home. It was as if all of District 12’s resources had been exhausted, its people drained into submission.

As Katniss climbed into bed with Prim, she cautiously touched her sister’s wrist. Nothing but her own thoughts. Blissful nothingness. She wrapped her arms around Prim and tumbled into the deepest sleep.

The next morning, it was as if no one was sure what had happened the night before. It was Reaping Day, so that took precedence over something strange that no one could quite explain, even to themselves. Despite their plans to hunt before the Reaping, Gale and Katniss chose to stay out of the woods.

The Hawthorne and Everdeen families walked to the Hall of Justice together as they always had. Prim flashed Katniss a look filled with such terror that Katniss felt a tremor of that borrowed anxiety roll through her. Her mind cast out for something, anything, else and felt instead a throb of desire. She glanced around until she found his blue eyes waiting for her. She latched onto them like a drowning man, and felt a deep calm settle over her. After the Reaping, she resolved, she would talk to Peeta Mellark.

The next thing she knew, Prim’s name was falling from Effie Trinket’s garish lips. The she was crying out, volunteering.

Up close, Effie was even more unbearably freakish and Katniss averted her eyes as Peeta Mellark’s name was fished from the bowl. Not him, not him, her mind stuttered and tripped over the tragedy of it.

As she sat numbly on the finely upholstered couch, waiting for her death march to the train, then the Capitol, then the arena, Forsythia appeared before her. The small room filled with a chilling breeze and the smell of ash. Without looking up, Katniss flatly asked, “Why.”

“Your father was mine. He came to me in the meadow on the full moon. He sang to me and stopped my heart. Witches do not love easily, at least not men. The bonds of our coven sustain us. But I loved your father. I taught him the secrets of the forest. And he was mine. Until your mother stole him from me.” Her voice hardened and the temperature dropped several degrees.

“How he could have wanted something so simple,” she spat, “so pretty, over my magnificence that defied nature. I would have thought she had bewitched him, but she is far too stupid for that.” She took a deep breath, exhaling shards of ice, and continued. “She stole him, then she lost him. If she couldn’t protect him, she did not deserve him. She doesn’t deserve even a piece of him. She deserves to be punished.

“I could have just killed you outright, but I believe in a sporting chance. You hold the key to your own happy ending. All you have to do is win.”

The door swung open and Forsythia was gone, only the soft crunch of ice crystals on the woven rug left as evidence. Katniss clutched the mockingjay pin and Mr. Mellark’s cookies against her stomach. She felt the echo of the fire that surged within her and resolved to make it home and somehow, to bring Peeta with her.


	3. And Longing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for District 12 Drabbles Prompt "Stolen". Jealousy inspires Katniss to try her hand at seduction.
> 
> So much gratitude to @xerxia31 for emergency betaing and incredible support. 
> 
> Rated M

“Just the sound of his voice twists my stomach into a knot of unpleasant emotions like guilt, sadness, and fear. And longing. I might as well admit there’s some of that, too. Only it has too much competition to ever win out.” Catching Fire, page 14.

I was staring so intently at the scuffed toe of my old hunting boots, dreading my trip into town as I trudged down the hill, I almost didn’t see them. Walking up the lane towards Victor’s Village was Peeta and Leena Ashwood, the tanner’s daughter. She had her lily-white hand linked over his elbow and was leaning into his side, twirling her golden hair around a delicate finger as she babbled on. Peeta chuckled at something she’d said and my entire world shifted on its axis, tilting dangerously and threatening to turn out my empty stomach. His step faltered as he saw me, but he just nodded once at me as he passed, not saying anything. And why would he? We had barely spoken since we returned from the games.

Seeing him touching another woman, heading back to his house with her, lit something dangerous in my belly. I knew I had lost him, pushed him away, abandoned him and those things ate away at me, eroded me from the inside. But another woman stealing him? That lit an entirely different kind of blaze. And all of a sudden, the longing moved up to first in line.

I abandoned my trip to town and stole home on quiet feet in time to watch them entering his house. I snapped at myself that it didn’t matter. That I didn’t want him anyway. But as the sun dipped below the trees and the shadows overtook our houses, I was crawling out of my skin with the need to see him. To see his need for me reflected in the pools of his eyes. I waited for his lights to come on. Only that soft, ever-present glow from his kitchen was visible through his downstairs windows.

All of a sudden, I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran out the door, crossing the scant yards that separated our houses. I didn’t let myself think or second guess, I needed to see him, to stop whatever was happening between him and that blond placeholder.

Banging on his door harder than I had intended, he looked startled to see me when he opened the door.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, the panic carrying his voice an octave higher than usual, his gaze already searching the near darkness behind me.

“Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to see you.” Having peered around him into the softly lit house, I saw no signs of Leena Ashwood.

“Oh, okay. Come in.” The bewilderment was plain on his lovely face, but he didn’t seem to be hiding anything.

“Is your friend still here?” I asked sharply, not caring that I probably sounded as jealous as I felt.

“Who?” He looked genuinely puzzled and I was starting to feel foolish. Anger flared up to consume the embarrassment, it was a much more manageable emotion for me.

“Your lady friend,” I spat.

“Are you talking about Leena?” He had the audacity to look slightly amused. He should have been scared.

When I didn’t answer, he just sighed and walked back towards the kitchen where he had apparently been measuring ingredients for dough before I barged in full of unnecessary accusations.

“She left two minutes after she got here. She just wanted to borrow a book.”

He couldn’t possible be stupid enough to think that was all she wanted. She wanted his strong arms, his broad chest, to run her fingers through those soft curls at the nape of his neck. She wanted to feel his mouth and hands on every part of her body. I felt my stomach tighten and my face flush at these forbidden thoughts.

As much to distract myself as him, I asked,” How’s your house?”

“The house is fine. I wish they hadn’t given it to me, at least then I’d have an excuse to be at the bakery.” There was such raw sadness in his flat response, I longed to wrap him in my arms. But that wasn’t what I was here for. I was here to steal him back. And it was stealing, he didn’t belong to me.

I switched gears, stalking towards him like prey.

“I thought you’d love the time and space to paint, to focus on things you like but never had free time for.” I tried for cheerful, but fell markedly short.

“I guess I thought the same thing initially. I imagined it full of friends and family.” He glanced down. “Or maybe I imagined you and I sitting at my kitchen table, eating delicious meals, or you making arrows while I sketched. Or us sitting by the fire reading or talking.”

This was the Peeta I knew. I reached him and leaned in, “Is that all you imagined us doing?”

“Pretty much. Did I mention you were naked in all of these scenarios?” He smiled wryly, but moved away from me and stood behind the kitchen island and began assembling ingredients.

I couldn’t abide the loss of his attention.

“Is that so?” I asked, but my voice was quiet and even.

He shrugged and continued mixing. The desperation that surged up into my chest, scalding my heart, made me reckless, but strong. I reached for the top button on my shirt and popped it open.

He turned the dough out onto the counter top and began to gather and shape it with his incredible hands. I unbuttoned the second button. I watched those hands begin to knead and felt my stomach tighten in response. If I thought I was confused about my motives when I came here today, I had definitely sorted out what I wanted. I unbuttoned the third button, running my fingertips down the valley between my breasts. I was still watching his hands and noticed that their rhythmic kneading had slowed. I glanced up and was met with the startling blue of his eyes. But to my dismay, I lost them as he resumed his task.

I undid the last two buttons of my shirt, so it hung slightly open. He flipped the dough and I watched his forearms flex as he reshaped it before putting his considerable shoulders into the task. It was odd to be so thoroughly aroused by such an innocent task, but I wanted those hands on my body more than I had wanted anything in months.

He refused to look up at me. I felt the challenge and my answering defiance. I pushed off from where I was leaning against the counter and walked the two paces to the island. He had taken the position on the opposite side, placing the barrier between us. It was odd to see him positioned with his back to the living room and front door as he always worked on this side.

“You’re standing on the wrong side of the counter,” I stated flatly.

Without looking up at me, he answered, “I was trying to give you some space.”

I ran my fingertips up my belly, parting the edges of the fabric with my thumbs. “What if I don’t want any space?” I demanded, nearly panting with the effort not to crawl across the island and lie down on top of his dough.

He looked up at me slowly, peering through his impossibly long eyelashes before meeting my eyes. His gaze raked down my neck to my partially exposed breasts down to where it lingered on my belly button. He swallowed audibly and licked his bottom lip. The rush of heat that clenched low in my belly and flushed my skin made me clutch the counter for support. But I took a slow, deep breath and steeled myself against the onslaught of wanting him. How was he staying so calm? After we made it out of the arena, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of me. I could feel his gaze on me constantly, the heat and weight of it pressing into my skin. I had thought it was too much for me then, the longing and need in his eyes, his every gesture, but now I was literally thirsting for it.

I slowly pulled the shirt back, shrugging it over my shoulders so it hung off my elbows and bared myself to him. He closed his eyes, he would deny me even this small victory. My anger surged, but I realized how shallow his breathing was and I traced a bead of sweat as it ran down his temple, along his cheek and was lost under the collar of his shirt. I longed to follow it’s path with my tongue, to lick my way into his mouth, his soul. He was fighting against my efforts, but they were working. I was having an effect.

I trailed my hands up lightly over my breasts. A small moan catching in my throat as I brushed against my nipples. I closed my eyes and imagined his hands plucking gently at the sensitive, taut buds and this time I didn’t stifle the moan. I heard his breath catch.

I was aware of his stillness as I looked at him, still fondling my breasts and the sight of his darkened eyes and blown pupils sent a bolt of electricity straight to my core. I was throbbing with lust for him and he wouldn’t touch me.

“Katniss,” he said, his voice thick and low, “what exactly are you trying to do to me?”

Did he seriously have to ask? What the hell else did I need to do? Write a manifesto? The fury and exasperation surged up in me so quickly I didn’t realized I was hurtling myself across the island until I had his shirt balled in my fists and my face inches from his as I hissed, “I’m trying to seduce you, you idiot!”

“But why?” He hadn’t pulled away from me, but the look of confusion, shaded with defeat was more than I could take.

I slowly unclenched my hands and released his shirt. Feeling unbearably naked and utterly foolish, I sat back and pulled my shirt back over my shoulders, clutching it closed. I could feel the anger and humiliation surging up through me, but spoke before it could turn the world red. “Because I miss you.”

“Yeah?” The hopeful note as his voice cracked made my heart clench painfully.

“Yeah.” I swung my legs over the side of the counter and began to button my shirt.

He grabbed one of my hands, pulling it away from the button. “Not so fast. I needed to know. I can never tell what you’re thinking. That doesn’t mean I want you put your shirt back on.” He moved his hand down to my knee and gently pushed my legs apart before stepping between them. He wrapped his forearm around my lower back, his large hand grabbing my ass as he pulled me to edge of the counter until I was pressed against his hips. My inner thighs were stretched to capacity to accommodate the width of him. I leaned back, placing my palms on the counter and causing my shirt to fall open and my breasts to thrust forward.

Peeta swallowed audibly as I slowly ran my calves up his backside to clasp my ankles over his ass, pushing my center against his hardening length. He pulled back and placed both his hands on the counter on either side of my hips. I was on fire for him, but he still wasn’t touching me. I fought the feeling of shyness that threatened to engulf me. I thrust out my meager breasts in offering, causing my shirt to slip off my shoulders and pool at my wrists.

He grabbed my waist, his hands wrapping most of the way around my back. His thumbs ghosted up my sides, tracing over each of my ribs before stopping just under my breasts to softly trace the swell.

“Peeta,” I moaned, pushing myself more firmly against his erection. He groaned softly before running the pads of his thumbs over my hard and straining nipples. The electric charge that ran straight to my pussy caused me to gasp and grind against him. Then he was pawing and kneading my breasts like I had been silently begging for moments before, leaving trails of fire and a light dusting of flour on my skin. I couldn’t stop the litany of moans that fell from my lips, could barely keep myself from tearing at his clothes and trying to consume him. It felt so good.

He buried his flushed face in my neck and dragged his unbelievably soft lips up the column of my neck. I ground against him again and I could feel his answering grunt against the skin of my jaw. And then he was kissing me and I was utterly lost in him.

The drag of his lips, the slide of his tongue over mine were threatening to undo me. This was meant to be mine. No one else’s, but how could someone steal something I’d already thrown away?

“Is this really what you want?” He tried to make his voice hard, but his eyes couldn’t hide the thread of desperation.

“Yes,” I cried pushing into him. But I couldn’t meet his eyes as I added, “I don’t know.”

He stepped back, running his hand along the back of his neck as he took a steadying breath. I was losing him again.

“Isn’t it enough that I’m here now?” I blurted out, knowing that it wasn’t and how unfair it was of me to ask.

He surged back into me, pressing our chests together and grasping the back of my neck to force me to took up at him.

“It means everything that you’re here. But I don’t understand what you want and I can’t stand you not wanting me again later.” The raw edge to his voice made my chest ache.

“I want,” I began, “I want…” What? For him to fuck me like a wild animal on this counter? For him to love me despite all of the horrible things I’d said and done? For him to punish me for the way I’d treated him and deny me all of his goodness? For him to find me worthy, redeemable? Because if he could, then maybe I was?

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He pulled away, righting my shirt enough to slip the first button closed, then stepped away from the counter and tucked his shirt in with finality. Despite the warmth of this kitchen, I felt the loss of his warmth and steadiness acutely.

“If you figure out that you do want me, for anything really, I’m right here.”

And despite the prominent erection still visible through his pants, I knew this was done. And through the thick fog of hurt and humiliation, I was proud of Peeta. Because despite the fact that President Snow has stolen our innocence, our sense of security, our normalcy, Peeta hadn’t allowed him to steal his worth or change him like he’d feared. Despite all of the injustice and cruelty life has thrown at him, he has gritted his teeth and made more kindness. And I realized with a jolt, that I loved him for it.

I slid off the counter, buttoning my shirt and dusting the flour off my ass. As I passed him on my way to the door, I looked up into his sky blue eyes and asked, “Can I come by tomorrow?”

He nodded and answered in a whisper, “I’d love that.”

“Then I’ll try.” I didn’t know if I’d be brave enough tomorrow, or if I’d need to hide in shame until we left for the Victory Tour in a couple of days. He nodded as if he understood this, and everything else too.

As I reached the door, already feeling myself contract in embarrassment, but forcing my chin up until I could hide myself away in my room, I turned at the sound of his voice.

“And Katniss? The next time you try to seduce me, please be sure. I don’t think I can resist you a second time. You are truly the most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen.”

And just like that, his honeyed tongue and fathomless heart had rescued me from the jagged edges of my despair. I just had to be ready for next time.


	4. Sanctary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for District 12 Drabble prompt: "Caught Red Handed". Katniss and Peeta hunkered down together, resting and healing in the cave during the 74th Hunger Games.
> 
> Rated T to M? for mild sexual content.

His eyes were dark and bottomless with fever as she administered the shot that would save his life. Miraculously, nonsensically, it had been Clove’s skull that was crushed, her crumpled, lifeless body left at the Cornucopia, not Katniss’. Katniss felt her knotted muscles begin to relax for the first time since she’d left their cave that morning for the feast in pursuit of the something they “needed desperately”. 

Weak from loss of blood and exhaustion, she exhaled a shaky breath, quelling the irrational tears that were pressing against the backs of her eyes. Silently chanting the mantra that he would be okay, she had gotten him the medicine and he would be okay, she closed her eyes. And she was thankful for his warmth beside her as she surrendered to the oblivion of unconsciousness.

After a full day of recovery in their stone sanctuary due to the incessant rain, she felt restored. With a belly full of goat cheese and the lingering sweetness of the apples still on her lips, she decided she was well rested enough to conduct her watch from the shelter of the sleeping bag. As she slid in beside Peeta, cuddling into his now fever-free, but still blissfully hot body, she felt that soft blanket of intimacy that they had woven last night with their tales of home settle softly over her. 

Surprised by how it was not only comfortable, but actually luxurious to curl against him, she exhaled a small unexpected moan into his sweaty neck. He shifted towards this sound in his sleep, pressing against her and gathering her to him. She held her breath, her head cushioned against his bicep, his arm resting over her protectively.

It was too much, she turned in his arms, pressing her back to him. As she watched the drops of rain splatter on the cave floor, her mind drifted back to that kiss. The one that left her infused in a foreign warmth. That kiss had lit a fire in her belly, and as she glanced away from the cave entrance and over her shoulder to really look at him, she felt it stoke to life. Warm and curious.

She wished she had paid a bit more attention to the form that lay beneath his soiled clothes as she washed him at the river. Her inherent discomfort, coupled with the mortification that the cameras would capture her observing his nakedness, had kept her eyes averted. But now, bundled together in their little lair, she couldn’t help cobbling together the flashes of memory with the embellishments of imagination to picture his solid frame. 

His broad shoulders tapering to a taut stomach, an expanse of flushed, pink skin marred with tracker jacker stings, burns and bruises. Her mind’s eye conjured his bare chest, dusted with golden hair as the rivulets of water snaked downward. Her imagination snagged on a line of that hair, how it had glistened in the sun as he reclined on the boulder. It had started just below his navel and trailed down, down… Her breath caught sharply as she tore her mind from where exactly that trail would lead.

Bodies had always struck her as strictly utilitarian. And despite spending most of her waking hours with what was widely purported to be one of the most handsome and desirable bodies in District 12, Gale’s body had never inspired this throbbing longing in her. The thought of Gale watching this was a cold pail of water poured over her head, causing her to recoil from Peeta’s touch.

As insular as this cave felt, it was built by the Capitol so it would betray her. Turn her suffering into entertainment. She has to remember that, she has to act accordingly. But Gale and his hurt feelings might as well be a million miles away. And this kind, lovely boy from home was holding her close and keeping her from living these last days, hours, or minutes alone.

And he felt wonderful, so impossibly good laying firmly against her, a strong arm wrapped around her middle. In fact, some areas were firmer than others. She sent tendrils of her consciousness down to investigate this firm intrusion pressing insistently against her ass. She pressed back against him experimentally and he moaned into the back of her neck, ruffling the hairs that had escaped her braid and sending a riot of goosebumps spreading from where his lips ghosted over her skin out through her body like ripples in a pond.

She glanced back up at his face, still peaceful in sleep, little huffs of breath punctuating his slumber. Giving into her curiosity she shifted carefully in his arms until she was facing him again. She scooted away from him slightly and he made a small sound of protestation in the back of his throat as he tried to gather her back against him. Bracing her palm on his muscled chest, she held herself a few inches away until his breathing resumed, slow and even.

His shirt had ridden up and in the pale morning light streaming in from the cave mouth she could see a few inches of skin bordered by the dark cloth of his clothes. She wondered if it would feel hot to the touch, if the golden hair would be soft or coarse. Inexplicably, and in spite of the snack just hours before, her mouth watered. 

She realized that her desire to taste the pale skin just visible in the hollow of his hipbone was rivaling her hunger for lamb stew. Licking her lips, she shifted another inch back and felt his erection twitch as it sprang forward, no longer tethered against her hip. She could just make out the thick outline beneath the fabric of his pants and she longed to run her palm over it, to feel width and length in her hand. She allowed her fingertips to graze the edge of his shirt to inch it slightly higher and expose a sliver more of tantalizing flesh to her starving eyes.

She watched his stomach tighten and her eyes shot up to make sure he was still asleep. A jolt of horror richoceted down her spine as she was met with a half-lidded, blue-eyed gaze. Though he looked adorably rumpled and sleepy, there was something sharp and knowing in his eyes. Mortification coloring her cheeks, she couldn’t help but look back down as he shifted onto his back, stretched his arms above his head, and casually thrust his pelvis upwards. She shivered.

When he pulled her down to capture her lips in a long kiss, her body was already abuzz with something foreign and furtively exciting. It was her turn to flush with heat as she leaned into his kiss, wanting more.

He shifted slightly, the sensation of his warm breath in her ear causing goosebumps to breakout on her arms and her nipples to harden, as he whispered, “Oh, I don’t care if you see me.” She felt, rather than saw the smile, before she recognized the sauciness in his voice as he added, “And touching is just fine too.” Her breath caught and her stomach somersaulted as her insides clenched against a squirming, insistent need. 

As she climbed out of their sleeping bag, her feelings were a swirling mess that confused and stretched her in uncomfortable ways. She went with what she knew and ignored them, which was fairly easy to do in light of her actual survival being at stake. But Haymitch had made it unquestionably clear that her survival was actually tied to her actions with Peeta. Even if she couldn’t untangle her motivations, she was fully justified in continuing to kiss him. And whether she enjoyed it was entirely her own business.

As she watched Peeta happily devouring the leftover stew as he prepared to re-enter the arena by her side, she couldn’t fight the realization that what she needed desperately might not have been the syringe in the backpack, but instead this perplexing, good-natured boy with eyes like the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm appleblossomgirl0305 over on Tumblr if you'd like to chat.


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